Black Water Page 9

  Merci's father suddenly took on a new respect in her eyes. "You punched him out?"

  "Well, yes."

  "That's great, Dad."

  He looked at her with mild disbelief, an expression that she'd known as far back as she could remember.

  "Back then, things were a little looser in the jail. We didn't pit gladiators like the guards up at Corcoran, but you know, it was tit for tat."

  "And you'd been tatted."

  "That was the only time I ever struck an inmate."

  "Well, I'm glad you clocked the creep. When he woke up, he said he'd kill you?"

  Clark glanced at Tim on her lap. "A few days later. Looked at me in the mess hall, pretty much rabid, and told me he'd, ah . . . deal with me when he got out. I believed him. Maybe because I was young. Bui it registered in a way I didn't like. Maybe because he'd said other things that were true."

  Merci waited for the punch line, which was fairly obvious, but she wanted to hear details, if there were any.

  "Died in a drug deal gone bad," said Clark, forking the chicken onto plates. He glanced at Tim again, then at Merci. "Someone .. . removed his head area with a ten-gauge item made for waterfowling."

  "Bummer. Hungry, Tim?"

  "Not hungry."

  "Too bad, little man. Let's eat!"

  After dinner she poured a substantial scotch and water and turned on the living room TV for Tim. He liked Teletubbies—a PBS children's program that Merci considered hallucinogenic but harmless. It was about cuddly creatures with televisions implanted in their stomachs living in tunnels under a phony golf course that grew big plastic flowers and had radio broadcasts coming out of evil-looking speakers. The Teletubbies themselves scurried around like potbellied oldsters, squeaking to one another. Cottontail rabbits loitered on the greens. The accompanying music was repetitious and infantile in a bizarre way and Merci figured the creators were '60s acid casualties with fat grants from the Corporation. Then she tried to remove this idea from her head, just another useless and probably inaccurate opinion. So many of them. She watched the Teletubbies go to bed in their underground sleeping pods and saw how this absolutely fascinated her son.

  What could it hurt? You've got tubbies and I've got scotch.

  She sat on the floor beside him and stroked his back while he watched. She wouldn't let him see the next show, which sent him into a tantrum—Tim's new reaction to being denied even the smallest desire. Merci figured it was a phase.

  Tim bawled it out and she let him, then took him into his room and read him three of his favorite stories. He fell asleep on her lap in the rocking chair and she carried him to his bed.

  She showered and put on a light robe, then came back to Tim's room and sat in the corner in the dark. The remnants of the ice cubes clinked rhythmically in the glass as she rocked. The sweet aroma of the orange blossoms wavered in on the warm breeze. She closed her eyes and said the same prayer she said every night, to a God she believed in but wasn't sure she trusted.

  Watch over him. Watch over him. Watch over him.

  In the living room she turned down the volume on the police band radio, already set to the Sheriff's frequency, down low. Listening to it was a holdover from her old days on patrol, the days when every crime seemed to require her attention, on duty or off.

  She sat forward on the living room sofa, some of Archie Wildcraft's court testimony spread across the coffee table, the lampshade tilted out to throw light over her shoulder. The windows were still open and the white tip of a cat tail twitched from a shadow on the seat of Clark's old recliner.

  Then she started with the criminal felony cases, going back a year.

  The People versus Vomastic Washington, multiple homicide, responding deputies Archibald Wildcraft and Damon Reese. Archie testified that he'd found the defendant hiding in a bathroom cabinet a the crime scene. Conviction to Ryan Dawes, two life sentences to be served consecutively, appeal filed and pending.

  The People versus Stephanie Mai, attempted murder of Marilyn Mai, her identical twin sister, wiretap testimony from Deputy 2 Archibald Wildcraft. Apparently, Archie had been assigned to an undercover sting at the sisters' favorite Garden Grove disco. He'd gotten some incriminating statements from her. Conviction to Lisa Musick twelve years, appeal filed and pending.

  The People versus Felix Mendez, possession of illegal narcotics conspiracy to distribute narcotics, possession of illegal automatic weapons, attempted murder of a police officer. All of this grew from a domestic disturbance call, responding officers Archibald Wildcraft and Damon Reese again. Reese was about to take a bullet from Mendez's hidden derringer when Archie shot him through the hand, kicked away the gun and cuffed the defendant. When the prosecutor asked if Archie considered himself a hero for saving his partner's life, Archie said he was just a deputy doing his job. Conviction to Ryan Dawes life in prison without parole for Mendez: strike three.

  Merci scanned back through the Mendez transcript and saw what she thought she'd see: Mendez was heavily implicated in La Erne— the Mexican Mafia—though he steadfastly denied knowing anything about the organization. Dawes presented testimony that Mendez was a ranking member of La Erne, having earned his way up by dealing narcotics and handling enforcement, intimidation and murder contracts Mendez's attorney aired a symphony of objections, the judge sustained half and overruled the others, allowing Mendez to deny it all.

  Merci knew that La Eme had climbed into power in just the last two decades, as the Hispanic prison population had grown. In the California prisons, they ruled. They were exceptionally violent, well organized and thorough. They were loyal to each other, and all but silent to the law. And although their power base lay hidden in the cells of the huge penal system, their reach went far beyond the walls and razor wire.

  Sure, thought Merci, La Erne could hit Archie Wildcraft if they wanted him hit. And sure, Felix Mendez would not have been too happy about having his left hand blown apart in his own home while his wife watched, by a handsome young deputy with dimples. But why Gwen?

  Merci flipped back through to read about the disturbance call. An anonymous neighbor had phoned it in, and the deputies had walked into the middle of a cocaine-addled dispute between the couple. Sure enough, when Michelle Mendez had spit in his face and bitten him, Archie Wildcraft had shoved her into a wall and cuffed her. Made her nose bleed. And that was when Mendez produced the pistol from under his bathrobe.

  Merci flagged the transcript with a red paper clip.

  She leafed through The People versus Goudee, a rape case, but rapists were cowards. And The People versus Viznaska, a car thief, but Viznaska was twenty years old, apparently not mobbed up, had no violent priors. And Rhonert, a burglar; Nelson, a boiler-room phone fraud scammer; Vasquez, a fugitive female shot-caller whom Archie and Reese had easily matched to a briefing mug while she walked three pitbulls down Fourth Street, about five blocks from headquarters, in broad daylight.

  Another hour and she'd finished off the felony criminal cases in which Wildcraft had testified in the last two years. She fingered through the arrest forms—mostly drunk-in-publics, drunken drivers, disturbing the peace, fights. The same shit that's coming over the radio right now, she thought. Meat and potatoes, everyday stuff.

  One drunken driving stop almost two years ago was of a man named Trent Gentry, who happened to work for the Newport Beach office of Ritter-Dunne-Davis Financial. She pulled and flagged this with a red paper clip too, strictly on the coincidence of Priscilla Brock's beloved Charles working for the same global company. Small world, she thought. Small World, Big Opportunity—wasn't that the RDD slogan you got sick of on TV? At any rate, Archie had done the right thing and busted the drunk.

  She sighed and sat back and looked out at a bright moon checkered by the window screen. So many creeps, she thought. But how man of these are capable of this? One? Maybe two?

  She clicked off the radio, checked Tim, made another drink, s; outside on the back patio. She looked out at the dark groves and marvel
ed at how they just ended a hundred yards in three of four directions, at the ten-foot salmon-colored wall of a housing development. Merci loved the wall for all the people it kept in. She had not chosen the farmhouse for aesthetics, and in fact she didn't care for orange juice, but she'd grown to like the still sweetness of the tree and semi-feral cats that moved silently through the grove, like thoughts. Her father had been offered the place by an acquaintance who owned it, and the rent was cheap. That was long before Clark had entertained any notions of moving in. The old farmhouse came with the warning that it could and would be sold to the first bidder with the right price, but that had yet to happen. Merci wondered how many millions her five acres were worth. What, six or eight grand for every orange?

  Zamorra called at eleven-fourteen.

  "You weren't listening to the police band." "What."

  "Irvine cops found a black STS, license QM742JN abandoned the end of Sand Canyon. You know, out there by the strawberry fields—past the new hospital."

  "Jones said OM."

  "Os and Qs—not the first time."

  "I want to see that car."

  "Gilliam and Ike Sumich are on their way."

  "I'm on mine. Thanks, Paul." She poked a cat out of the way, tossed the drink and nuked a cup of instant coffee, dressed quickly, told Clark the score. She kissed Tim. She remembered the CSI who was doing such good, thorough work the Wildcraft scene, Don Leitzel. So she called him and told him get on it double time. He said, "I'm there," and hung up. Twenty minutes later Merci came to the end of Sand Canyon Road, braking her Impala well outside the ring of white light cast by three big tripod floods. The floods were being run by a big generator that half deafened her as she got out of her car. It was so loud she could barely hear herself think, but the light was bright and true, and Zamorra came from light to darkness to greet her.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The STS was parked off the road, on a wide beach of dirt and loose gravel that separated the asphalt from the strawberry field. When Merci stepped out of her car she could smell the fruit. The roaring generator had been set up maybe twenty yards from the front end of the Caddy. One light tripod was positioned a solid ten yards away from each end of the car, Merci noted: good.

  She also saw the crime scene tape, a big rectangle of it with the car in the middle.

  "You'll like this," said Zamorra.

  "A confession letter and video evidence?"

  "Not quite. Your pal Dobbs was first one here again."

  "My luck."

  "Look at the crime scene he marked off, it's the size of Yankee Stadium."

  The floodlights made her think of a baseball stadium, too—the bright, clean white light. She followed him to the tape, then under it, but Zamorra took her by the arm and stopped her.

  Then Merci saw the flashlight in the gravel, pointing toward the road. Less than a yard away lay a citation book. Then a sunglass case. Then, closer to the STS, a bundle of road flares, unlit.

  Her heart sped up and she thought of young Dobbs and wondered what all this debris was.

  "What's this stuff doing everywhere?"

  "He'll want to tell you."

  Dobbs was already trotting toward her—head steady, up on his toes—but staying way out by the perimeter of the tape. She saw the triangle of his torso, the big chest and arms.

  "Sergeant Rayborn," he said crisply.

  "Deputy."

  He knelt and picked up the flashlight and aimed its beam down into the dirt and gravel. It barely showed up against the fierce light of the floodlamps. She knelt, too.

  Dobbs traced a small circle on the dirt with his light. In the middle of the small circle was a large footprint.

  "I found a total of ten indentations, leading from the car toward the road. I marked the best ones with whatever I had handy. None of them are very good, but the first four, up by the car, are better. Two people. One set starts from the passenger side of the Caddy. The other from the driver's side. I took the liberty of holding my duty boot over the ones from the passenger side—don't worry, I didn't even come close to touching one."

  Dobbs stared intently down the beam of his light.

  "I wear a twelve," he said. "And these are bigger than mine. A lot. Big dude."

  "Very."

  "I approached on the passenger side, from the rear, checked for anything suspicious, then taped the whole scene off before I called in. Got into kind of an argument with one of the CSIs over how close the generator should go. After that driveway thing, nobody's getting too close to my crime scenes. Including me."

  "You with Crowder tonight?"

  "He called in sick so I'm solo. Sergeant, guess what's laying on the front seat of the Cadillac?"

  "That could take a while."

  "Today's Journal, folded into quarters, with the article about Archie facing up. About Archie and Gwen, I mean."

  "Nice work."

  "Thank you. I'll be over there with the order log, if you need me."

  Merci picked her way over to the rear end of the car, following Zamorra, avoiding Dobbs's markers and the footprints. She glance out at the strawberry field, saw the furrows converging back toward hill with the moon above it. The furrows were lined in plastic to protect the berries and the plastic shined like water in the moonlight. The fruit smelled sweet on the air, not heavy like the Valencias, she thought but higher in pitch and less determined. She could see the Irvine Medical Center from here, which was where Tim Jr. was born. She thought of how small and red and afraid he'd been, of the plastic ID brace that dwarfed his wrist, of the little blue-and-white-checked cap they gave him to keep his head warm in the New World. And she remembered the great fear and anger she felt when she was being wheelchaired to the pickup area to take Tim home.

  She shined her light on the STS plates and the registration stick

  "It's not on the hot list," said Zamorra. "Registered owner George Massati of Lake Forest. His CDL says forty-four years old, five-ten, one-ninety. No criminal record. I sent two uniforms to his place. There are twelve models like this on the state hot list—three them here in this county. If somebody got fancy and swapped out plates and tags, this still might be a stolen vehicle."

  "You seen the trunk yet?"

  "Not much to see, but here."

  Zamorra popped the trunk from inside the cab and Merci ran her light across the recess in a slow back-and-forth motion. Not much was right: a bungee cord, an old red shop rag, three paper funnels with the Union 76 logo on them. The trunk liner was clean.

  "George runs a tight ship," she said.

  "Even adds his own oil."

  "Then drives his clean Caddy out here and ditches it? I wonder.

  "I do, too," said Zamorra. "If he ditched it, he probably got picked up. Maybe the getaway car left us some tracks."

  "The crime scene guys probably set up the generator on them."

  "You can't blame Dobbs for that," said Zamorra.

  "He's a good kid," said Rayborn.

  The front passenger door was open and Ike Sumich was bent into the opening, hands on his knees, not touching the car. He turned when he sensed her and she saw the tight anger on his face. "They were either wearing gloves, or they wiped the interior. All the slam dunks— steering wheel, shifter, door handle, headlight switch, turn signal— clean."

  "Too hot for gloves," said Merci. "They probably wiped. They used one of the red shop rags from the trunk, then threw it over in the culvert there. I know just where to find it."

  He backed out, shaking his head. "I already looked."

  Ike had blond hair that fell over his forehead and he was as thin as a wire hanger. He was a terrific CSI, the best sketcher she'd ever worked with. She'd decided years ago that he was to be one of her people, one of the then-under-thirties who—along with her—would be running the department someday. That particular plan had gone bust with the Mike McNally arrest, but that had nothing to do with Ike. She remembered Hess telling her once that he wished he was Ike's age again. She wished
he had been Ike's age then, too. And about her age now. And hadn't gotten cancer. And hadn't taken from a scum-bucket punk the bullet that ended his life.

  Dadda is all gone?

  Dadda is all gone.

  Dadda is here?

  Dadda is not here.

  Is in the picture?

  Is in the picture but is all gone.

  Is not all gone?

  Dadda is all gone. Good night, Tim. I love you. Good night. Good night, little man.

  "Sergeant, I might be able to dust up something from the door handles or body, but it's getting damper and damper out here. I suggest towing this thing into impound as fast as we can, put it in the covered part. I can try tomorrow, when it's dry and clear and warm out. If the print dust won't raise anything, I can try alternative light source on the big parts, maybe superglue some of the controls."

  "You've got it."

  Then Sumich changed subjects without missing a beat, something that often caught Merci off guard. "Al Madden has been hanging around my crime lab. In conference with the Big Man. Doors closed."

  This was news, not good. "And you heard the name Wildcraft

  "I did. Gilliam has to give him what we find. I mean, that's our job. To not give him the findings would be awfully damned strange.”

  "I understand."

  "Dawes, too."

  "Shit."

  "I dislike telling you this kind of thing."

  "If you didn't it could hurt me."

  "I see what I see. I think I detect unhappiness in Gilliam, for what it's worth. He . . . well, you know how he likes you."

  "The proud, the few."

  He smiled again, shook his head to get his hair back. "You say what you think and you're the best detective in Homicide Detail.'